Paid in Blood

Prologue

Intensely alert, the radar operator sat hunched over his equipment in the
small cabin of the research ship Observer. “The target is holding steady.”

“You are certain this is the ship?” Qadir Yaseen stood behind the young man.
Yaseen was in his fifties, lean and hardbodied because he had spent most of
his life fighting a jihad against the aggressors of his people. He wore a traditional
mogasab over a thobe. The robe’s gold trim stood out against the dark cotton.
His black smagh framed his face.

“Yes, sir. I have verified the satellite signal you gave me.”

“Very well,” Yaseen said. “Let us go and get my cargo.”

He alerted the ship’s crew over the PA system, then strode out of the bridge.
Two bodyguards armed with machine pistols went through the hatch first, flaring
to either side to take up escort positions.

As Yaseen stepped out onto the deck, the ship came alive around him. Anticipation
filled him. Finally, after nearly three years of preparation, bribing, blackmailing,
falsifying identities, and careful murder, his plan was coming together.

Yaseen had been born in 1948, a man without a proper country because the
Great Satans had given Palestine to the godless Israelis. Since that day, he
had fought and shed his lifeblood and the fortunes of his father, pursuing the
war to push the Jews from Palestine. But the Americans had constantly shored
them up with money and weapons. He had begun his holy war against the Israelis
when he was nineteen, serving against the hated Jews in the Six-Day War.

Until 1993 when the Oslo Accords were signed with Israel, Yaseen had faithfully
followed Yasser Arafat. Once the agreements had taken place, Yaseen had gone
his own way and remained apart. Over the intervening years, he had raised an
army to fight against the Israeli occupation of his homeland. For most of his
life he had struggled to further Muslim interests in the Middle East. For too
long his people had possessed little means to strike back at Israel and the
Western world.

Tonight, however, that balance of power would begin to change. He was going
to strike back in such a way that others who hated the Americans would attack
as well. The Americans, under their warmongering president, had engendered a
great feeling of enmity around the world. Everyone would blame them for the
chaos that followed.

Yaseen strained his eyes against the dark night that lay heavy on the sea.
He could see nothing yet, but he was not dismayed. The ship was out there. So
was the deadly cargo it carried. Observer’s engines throbbed to life. The ship
shouldered its way through the sea at half speed.

The thirty warriors Yaseen had brought with him by helicopter at sunset took
their places across Observer’s deck. All of them were young believers in the
mission that Yaseen had set for himself.

They carried AK-47 rifles and Tokarev pistols. The Russian assault rifles
and handguns had been easy to acquire in Odessa, Ukraine. The city was a major
Black Sea port and had a large amount of illegal contraband flowing through
it. Inhabitants there still referred to the city as Odessa Mama, which had begun
life as an underworld trading post.

A pale yellow oval burned a hole in the night. It rose and fell below the
dark horizon of the sea.

Yaseen’s heart raced. He had spent millions on the weapons he was about to
acquire but had not yet seen. Anticipation filled him and made him take a deep
breath.

Within minutes, Observer overtook the cargo ship. Yaseen could see sailors
shifting into defensive positions on deck.

“Sir,” the leader of Yaseen’s warriors called.

Yaseen nodded.

The leader gestured. Immediately one of the warriors stood and pulled his
rifle to his shoulder. The blunted detonation of a round echoed across the deck.
In the next instant, a grappling hook arced across the water between the two
ships. Loops of rope followed, singing as they spilled from the reservoir beneath
the rifle. The hook bounced on the cargo ship’s deck for a moment, then caught
on the railing.

Instantly sparks exploded into the night as bullets whined from metal surfaces.
The cargo ship’s crew had opened fire, targeting Observer’s prow and deck. The
chain around the deck jerked and rattled as bullets struck it.

Yaseen’s warriors returned fire, proving their greater skill and precision
as their bullets drove back the cargo ship’s crew.

Yaseen drew his own pistol and fired as well. There was no mercy in him when
it came to his enemies. He’d killed his first man, an Israeli soldier, when
he was twelve.

A few wounded tried to crawl away. One man got too near the deck’s edge and
tumbled overboard. The black water immediately swallowed him.

One after another, Yaseen’s warriors clipped D rings to the cable and slid
across the intervening distance. Once aboard the cargo ship, the warriors moved
across the upper deck and quickly executed all crewmen they found. Their orders
allowed no survivors. Bright muzzle flashes flickered to life, then died.

Clipping his own D ring to the cable, Yaseen followed his men onto the besieged
ship. Just putting his feet on the wooden deck empowered him.

Several warriors produced flashlights and stood waiting at the top of the
stairs. They went down into the hold at Yaseen’s command. Yaseen followed.

The hold stank of fish. A few inches of water sloshed across the floor. Yaseen
led the way farther back into the hold. He stopped beside an eight-foot-tall
bin packed with ice and fish.

“Here.”

The arrangement had been simple. Yaseen had paid his money, and his merchandise
was to have been hidden within the ship’s load. The crew had had no idea what
was hidden beneath their feet as they went about their duties on deck. Only
the ship’s captain was aware of the deadly cargo. Two of Yaseen’s men were searching
the ship for the captain now. In moments Yaseen would finally take possession
of his prize: two nuclear missiles.

At Yaseen’s order, two of the warriors laid down their rifles and took shovels
from the tool cabinet on the hull. They clambered into the bin and started shoveling
ice and fish into the water sloshing across the lower deck. It took several
minutes for Yaseen to realize that nothing was buried in the reeking mixture.

A scramble of feet came down the stairs.

Another two warriors brought a fat man down the stairs and dumped him unceremoniously
onto the floor. Water splashed across the man’s face, and he blubbered in pain
and fear. He spoke in a language Yaseen didn’t understand but believed to beGreek.

“Do you speak English?” Yaseen peered at the man.

Hiding behind his arms and hands as if they would somehow deflect the bullets
from the weapons pointed at him, the man looked up. “I speak English. Yes. Good
English.”

“Where is the captain?”

“I am the captain.”

“Where is my cargo?” Yaseen asked.

The captain shook his head. “What cargo?” He remained huddled on his knees.

Moving as quickly as a striking snake, a warrior backhanded the captain across
the face with a pistol, knocking his head back sharply.

“The missiles,” Yaseen said calmly. “Where are my missiles?”

Sweat rolled down the man’s face. “I have no missiles. Gronsky gave me nothing.”
He was weeping now. “He said the deal was off. He said you knew.”

A black rage possessed Yaseen. He’d hated dealing with Colonel Vladimir Gronsky
of the Russian army. The man was greedy and unscrupulous, but he routinely worked
in the blackmarket circles, and Yaseen had needed him to arrange his munitions
purchase.

Unable to control the rage that filled him, Yaseen picked up one of the shovels
and beat the man to the ground. He didn’t stop hitting the captain until he
had no energy left. All the years, all the money he’d spent, and he’d been betrayed
by another man’s greed. Shuddering, Yaseen threw the shovel aside and glared
down at the captain’s bloody, lifeless body.

Then he took a deep breath. Gronsky was greedy. The missiles still existed,
were still within his grasp, as was his vengeance for his family and friends
whom the United States had killed and would kill for generations to come. He
could still make his plan work.

He turned and walked from the cargo hold. On deck, Yaseen gave orders to
place demolition charges. Minutes later, the men returned to the Observer the
same way they had come. The moment the ship had moved a safe distance away,
the munitions blew and the cargo ship broke to pieces.

Yaseen watched the ship and crew settle into their watery grave. Gronsky
would be made to pay for his betrayal. He would pay most dearly.